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ST. GREGORY OF NYSSA
FUNERAL ORATION ON MELETIUS
[Translated by the Rev. William Moore, M.A., Rector of Appleton, Late
Fellow of Magdalen College, Oxford.]
THE number of the Apostles has been enlarged for us by this our late
Apostle being reckoned among their company. These Holy ones have drawn to
themselves one of like conversation; those athletes a fellow athlete; those
crowned ones another crowned like them; the pure in heart one chaste in
soul: those ministers of the Word another herald of that Word. Most
blessed, indeed, is our Father for this his joining the Apostolic band and
his departure to Christ. Most pitiable we! for the unseasonableness of our
orphaned condition does not permit us to congratulate ourselves on our
Father's happy lot. For him, indeed, better it was by his departure hence
to be with Christ, but it was a grievous thing for us to be severed from
his fatherly guidance. Behold, it is a time of need for counsel; and our
counsellor is silent. War, the war of heresy, encompasses us, and our
Leader is no more. The general body of the Church labours under disease,
and we find not the physician. See in what a strait we are. Oh! that it
were possible I could nerve my weakness, and rising to the full proportions
of our loss, burst out with a voice of lamentation adequate to the
greatness of the distress, as these excellent preachers of yours have done,
who have bewailed with loud voice the misfortune that has befallen them in
this loss of their father. But what can I do? How can I force my tongue to
the service of the theme, thus heavily weighted, and shackled, as it were,
by this calamity? How shall I open my mouth thus subdued to speechlessness?
How shall I give free utterance to a voice now habitually sinking to the
pathetic tone of lamentations? How can I lift up the eyes of my soul,
veiled as I am with this darkness of misfortune? Who will pierce for me
this deep dark cloud of grief, and light up again, as out of a clear sky,
the bright ray of peace? From what quarter will that ray shine forth, now
that our star has set? Oh! evil moonless night that gives no hope of any
star! With what an opposite meaning, as compared with those of late, are
our words uttered in this place now! Then we rejoiced with the song of
marriage, now we give way to piteous lamentation for the sorrow that has
befallen us! Then we chanted an epithalamium, but now a funeral dirge! You
remember the day when we entertained you at the feast of that spiritual
marriage, and brought home the virgin bride to the house of her noble
bridegroom; when to the best of our ability we proffered the wedding gifts
of our praises, both giving and receiving joy in turn(2). But now our
delight has been changed to lamentation, and our festal garb become
sackcloth. It were better, maybe, to suppress our woe, and to hide our
grief in silent seclusion, so as not to disturb the children of the bride-
chamber, divested as we are of the bright marriage garment, and clothed
instead with the black robe of the preacher. For since that noble
bridegroom has been taken from us, sorrow has all at once clothed us in the
garb of black; nor is it possible for us to indulge in the usual
cheerfulness of our conversation, since Envy(3) has stripped us of our
proper and becoming dress. Rich in blessings we came to you; now we leave
you bare and poor. The lamp we held right above our head, shining with the
rich fulness of light, we now carry away quenched, its bright flame all
dissolved into smoke and dust. We held our great treasure in an earthen
vessel. Vanished is the treasure, and the earthen vessel, emptied of its
wealth, is restored to them who gave it(4). What shall we say who have
consigned it? What answer will they make by whom it is demanded back? Oh!
miserable shipwreck! How, even with the harbour around us, have we gone to
pieces with our hopes! How has the vessel, fraught with a thousand bales of
goods, sunk with all its cargo, and left us destitute who were once so
rich! Where is that bright sail which was ever filled by the Holy Ghost?
Where is that safe helm of our souls which steered us while we sailed
unhurt over the swelling waves of heresy? Where that immovable anchor of
intelligence which held us in absolute security and repose after our toils?
Where that excellent pilot s who steered our bark to its heavenly goal? Is,
then, what has happened of small moment, and is my passionate grief
unreasoning? Is it not rather that I reach not the full extent of our loss,
though I exceed in the loudness of my expression of grief? Lend me, oh lend
me, my brethren, the tear of sympathy. When you were glad we shared your
gladness. Repay us, therefore, this sad recompense. "Rejoice with them that
do rejoice(6)." This we have done. It is for you to return it by "weeping
with them that weep." It happened once that a strange people bewailed the
loss of the patriarch Jacob, and made the misfortune of another people
their own, when his united family transported their father out of Egypt,
and lamented in another land the loss that had befallen them. They all
prolonged their mourning over him for thirty days and as many nights(7).
Ye, therefore, that are brethren, and of the same kindred, do as they who
were of another kindred did. On that occasion the tear of strangers was
shed in common with that of countrymen; be it shed in common now, for
common is the grief. Behold these your patriarchs. All these are children
of our Jacob. All these are children of the free-woman(8). No one is base
born, no one supposititious. Nor indeed would it have become that Saint to
introduce into the nobility of the family of Faith a bond-woman's kindred.
Therefore is he our father because he was the father of our father(9). Ye
have just heard what and how great things an Ephraim and a Manasses(1)
related of their father, and how the wonders of the story surpassed
description. Give me also leave to speak on them. For this beatification of
him from henceforth incurs no risk. Neither fear I Envy; for what worse
evil can it do me? Know, then, what the man was; one of the nobility of the
East, blameless, just, genuine, devout, innocent of any evil deed. Indeed
the great Job will not be jealous if he who imitated him be decked with the
like testimonials of praise. But Envy, that has an eye for all things fair,
cast a bitter glance upon our blessedness; and one who stalks up and down
the world also stalked in our midst, and broadly stamped the foot-mark of
affliction on our happy state. It is not herds of oxen or sheep(2) that he
has maltreated, unless in a mystical sense one transfers the idea of a
flock to the Church. It is not in these that we have received injury from
Envy; it is not in asses or camels that he has wrought us loss, neither has
he excruciated our bodily feelings by a wound in the flesh; no, but he has
robbed us of our very head. And with that head have gone away from us the
precious organs of our senses. That eye which beheld the things of heaven
is no longer ours, nor that ear which listened to the Divine voice, nor
that tongue with its pure devotion to truth(3). Where is that sweet
serenity of his eyes? Where that bright smile upon his lips? Where that
courteous right hand with fingers outstretched to accompany the benediction
of the mouth. I feel an impulse, as if I were on the stage, to shout aloud
for our calamity. Oh! Church, I pity you. To you, the city of Antioch, I
address my words. I pity you for this sudden reversal. How has your beauty
been despoiled! How have you been robbed of your ornaments! How suddenly
has the flower faded! "Verily the grass withereth and the flower thereof
falleth away(4)." What evil eye, what witchery of drunken malice has
intruded on that distant Church? What is there to compensate her loss? The
fountain has failed. The stream has dried up. Again has water been turned
into blood(5). Oh! the sad tidings which tell the Church of her calamity!
Who shall say to the children that they have no more a father? Who shall
tell the Bride she is a widow? Alas for their woes! What did they send out?
What do they receive back? They sent forth an ark, they receive back a
coffin. The ark, my brethren, was that man of God; an ark containing in
itself the Divine and mystic things. There was the golden vessel full of
Divine manna, that celestial food(6). In it were the Tables of the Covenant
written on the tablets of the heart, not with ink but by the Spirit of the
living God(7). For on that pure heart no gloomy or inky thought was
imprinted. In it, too, were the pillars, the steps, the chapters, the
lamps, the mercy-seat, the baths, the veils of the entrances. In it was the
rod of the priesthood, which budded in the hands of our Saint; and whatever
else we have heard the Ark contained(8) was all held in the soul of that
man. But in their stead what is there now? Let description cease. Cloths of
pure white linen scarves of silk, abundance of perfumes and spices; the
loving munificence of a modest and beautiful lady(9). For it must be told,
so as to be for a memorial of her(1), what she did for that Priest when,
without stint, she poured the alabaster box of ointment on his head. But
the treasure preserved within, what is it? Bones, now dead, and which even
before dissolution had rehearsed their dying, the sad memorials of our
affliction. Oh! what a cry like that of old will be heard in Rama, Rachel
weeping(2) , not for her children but for a husband, and admitting not of
consolation. Let alone, ye that would console; let alone; force not on us
your consolation(3). Let the widow indulge the deepness of her grief. Let
her feel the loss that has been inflicted on her. Yet she is not without
previous practice in separation. In those contests in which our athlete was
engaged she had before been trained to bear to be left. Certainly you must
remember how a previous sermon to ours related to you the contests of the
man; how throughout, even in the very number of his contests, he had
maintained the glory of the Holy Trinity, which he ever glorified; for
there were three trying attacks that he had to repel. You have heard the
whole series of his labours, what he was in the first, what in the middle,
and what in the last. I deem it superfluous to repeat what has been so well
described. Yet it may not be out of place to add just so much as this. When
that Church, so sound in the faith, at the first beheld the man, she saw
features truly formed(4) after the image of God, she saw love welling
forth, she saw grace poured around his lips, a consummate perfection of
humility beyond which it is impossible to conceive any thing further, a
gentleness like that of David, the understanding of Solomon, a goodness
like that of Moses, a strictness as of Samuel, a chastity as of Joseph, the
skill of a Daniel, a zeal for the faith such as was in the great Elijah, a
purity of body like that of the lofty-minded John(5), an unsurpassable love
as of Paul. She saw the concurrence of so many excellences in one soul,
and, thrilled with a blessed affection, she loved him, her own bridegroom,
with a pure and virtuous passion. But ere she could accomplish her desire,
ere she could satisfy her longing, while still in the fervour of her
passion, she was left desolate, when those trying times called the athlete
to his contests. While, then, he was engaged in these toilsome struggles
for religion, she remained chaste and kept the marriage vow. A long time
intervened, during which one, with adulterous intent(6), made an attempt
upon the immaculate bridal-chamber. But the Bride remained undefiled; and
again there was a return, and again an exile. And thus it happened thrice,
until the Lord dispelled the gloom of that heresy, and sending forth a ray
of peace gave us the hope of some respite from these lengthened
troubles(7). But when at length they had seen each other, when there was a
renewal of those chaste joys and spiritual desires, when the flame of love
had again been lit, all at once his last departure breaks off the
enjoyment. He came to adorn you as his bride, he failed not in the
eagerness of his zeal, he placed on this fair union the chaplets of
blessing, in imitation of his Master. As did the Lord at Cana of
Galilee(8), so here did this imitator of Christ. The Jewish waterpots,
which were filled with the water of heresy, he filled with genuine wine,
changing its nature by the power of his faith. How often did he set before
you a chalice, but not of wine, when with that sweet voice he poured out in
rich abundance the wine of Grace, and presented to you the full and varied
feast of reason! He went first with the blessing of his words, and then his
illustrious disciples were employed in distributing his teaching to the
multitude.
We, too, were glad, and made our own the glory of your nation(9). Up to
this point how bright and happy is our narrative. What a blessed thing it
were with this to bring our sermon to an end. But after these things what
follows? "Call for the mourning women(1)," as says the prophet Jeremiah. In
no other way can the burning heart cool down, swelling as it is with its
affliction, unless it relieves itself by sobs and tears. Formerly the hope
of his return consoled us for the pang of separation, but now he has been
torn from us by that final separation. A huge intervening chasm is fixed
between the Church and him. He rests indeed in the bosom of Abraham, but
there exists not one who might bring the drop of water to cool the tongue
of the agonized. Gone is that beauty, silent is that voice, closed are
those lips, fled that grace. Our happy state has become a tale that is
told. Elijah of old time caused grief to the people of Israel when he
soared from earth to God. But Elisha(2) consoled them for the loss by being
adorned with the mantle of his master. But now our wound is beyond healing;
our Elijah has been caught up, and no Elisha left behind in his place. You
have heard certain mournful and lamenting words of Jeremiah, with which he
bewailed Jerusalem as a deserted city, and how among other expressions of
passionate grief he added this, "The ways of Zion do mourn(3)." These words
were uttered then, but now they have been realized. For when the news of
our calamity shall have been spread abroad, then will the ways be full of
mourning crowds, and the sheep of his flock will pour themselves forth, and
like the Ninevites utter the voice of lamentation(4), or, rather, will
lament more bitterly than they. For in their case their mourning released
them from the cause of their fear, but with these no hope of release from
their distress removes their need of mourning. I know, too, of another
utterance of Jeremiah, which is reckoned among the books of the Psalms(5);
it is that which he made over the captivity of Israel. The words run thus:
"We hung our harps upon the willows, and condemned ourselves as well as our
harps to silence." I make this song my own. For when I see the confusion of
heresy, this confusion is Babylon(6). And when I see the flood of trials
that pours in upon us from this confusion, I say that these are "the waters
of Babylon by which we sit down, and weep" because there is no one to guide
us over them. Even if you mention the willows, and the harps that hung
thereon, that part also of the figure shall be mine. For in truth our life
is among willows(7) , the willow being a fruitless tree, and the sweet
fruit of our life having all withered away. Therefore have we become
fruitless willows, and the harps of love we hung upon those trees are idle
and unvibrating. "If I forget thee, oh Jerusalem," he adds, "may my right
hand be forgotten." Suffer me to make a slight alteration in that text. It
is not we who have forgotten the right hand, but the right hand that has
forgotten us: and the "tongue has cleaved to the roof of" his own "mouth,"
and barred the passage of his words, so that we can never again hear that
sweet voice. But let me have all tears wiped away, for I feel that I am
indulging more than is right in this womanish sorrow for our loss.
Our Bridegroom has not been taken from us. He stands in our midst,
though we see him not. The Priest is within the holy place. He is entered
into that within the veil, whither our forerunner Christ has entered for
us(8). He has left behind him the curtain of the flesh. No longer does he
pray to the type or shadow of the things in heaven, but he looks upon the
very embodiment of these realities. No longer through a glass darkly does
he intercede with God, but face to face he intercedes with Him: and he
intercedes for us(9) , and for the "negligences and ignorances" of the
people. He has put away the coats of skin(1); no need is there now for the
dwellers in paradise of such I garments as these; but he wears the raiment
which the purity of his life has woven into a glorious dress. "Precious in
the sight of the Lord is the death(2)" of such a man, or rather it is not
death, but the breaking of bonds, as it is said, "Thou hast broken my bonds
asunder." Simeon has been let depart(3). He has been freed from the bondage
of the body. The "snare is broken and the bird hath flown away 4." He has
left Egypt behind, this material life. He has crossed(5), not this Red Sea
of ours, but the black gloomy sea of life. He has entered upon the land of
promise, and holds high converse with God upon the mount. He has loosed the
sandal of his soul, that with the pure step of thought he may set foot upon
that holy land where there is the Vision of God. Having therefore,
brethren, this consolation, do ye, who are conveying the bones of our
Joseph to the place of blessing, listen to the exhortation of Paul: "Sorrow
not as others who have no hope(6)." Speak to the people there; relate the
glorious tale; speak of the incredible wonder, how the people in their
myriads, so densely crowded together as to look like a sea of heads, became
all one continuous body, and like some watery flood surged around the
procession bearing his remains. Tell them how the fair(7) David distributed
himself, in divers ways and manners, among innumerable ranks of people, and
danced before that ark(8) in the midst of men of the same and of different
language(9). Tell them how the streams of fire, from the succession of the
lamps, flowed along in an unbroken track of light, and extended so far that
the eye could not reach them. Tell them of the eager zeal of all the
people, of his joining "the company of Apostles(1)," and how the napkins
that bound his face were plucked away to make amulets for the faithful. Let
it be added to your narration how the Emperor(2) showed in his countenance
his sorrow for this misfortune, and rose from his throne, and how the whole
city joined the funeral procession of the Saint. Moreover console each
other with the following words; it is a good medicine that Solomon(3) has
for sorrow; for he bids wine be given to the sorrowful; saying this to us,
the labourers in the vineyard: "Give," therefore, "your wine to those that
are in sorrow(4)," not that wine which produces drunkenness, plots against
the senses, and destroys the body, but such as gladdens the heart, the wine
which the Prophet recommends when he says: "Wine maketh glad the heart of
man(5)." Pledge each other in that liquor undiluted(6) and with the
unstinted goblets of the word, that thus our grief may be turned to joy and
gladness, by the grace of the Only-begotten Son of God, through Whom be
glory to God, even the Father, for ever and ever. Amen.
Taken from "The Early Church Fathers and Other Works" originally published
by Wm. B. Eerdmans Pub. Co. in English in Edinburgh, Scotland, beginning in
1867. (LNPF II/V, Schaff and Wace). The digital version is by The
Electronic
Bible Society, P.O. Box 701356, Dallas, TX 75370, 214-407-WORD.
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